Rollercoasters
First of all, I’m afraid of heights. I didn’t really admit to this until a few years ago when I put together the fact that I have an anxiety gut response to being too far up. I mean, it’s mild, it’s not a full on phobia. But even standing on a second floor balcony makes my stomach turn and I break out in a cold sweat. It’s weird though, because I love rollercoasters. Although the dread while waiting in line and the panic during ascension hardly makes the ride worth it. As a child, I’d be the one screaming “STOP!! GET ME OFF THIS THING!!” even on the little kid dragon rollercoaster at the fair. You know the one.
This last year has been full of some intense highs and the lowest of lows.
A rollercoaster of emotions. How original.
On March 6th, 2019 my son Everett died inside of my belly. I was exactly 21 weeks pregnant. I will never forget the moment I realized he was no longer moving. On March 7th, his tiny body was removed from mine. These are the worst two days of my entire life (so far).
On March 6th, 2019 I received an email (that I didn’t read for about a week) that I had been named a finalist for a national 30 Under 30 award in my industry. Being generally perceived as a “sales” industry, I didn’t think I had a chance of making the cut. This award isn’t about sales volume, though. It’s awarded to honor outstanding leaders in their industry and community. It’s truly the greatest recognition one can receive before a “Lifetime Achievement” type award. When I got this news, I was ecstatic. But the high didn’t feel as good as I thought it should; I was so very, very low. I felt guilty to be happy about something.
The only way I made peace with this was to recognize that we as human beings are not singular in emotions. We obviously experience a spectrum of feelings at any given moment, even the worst ones. I resigned myself to being “sad and…”. I couldn’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t be sad and instead found comfort in accepting that I may be that way forever. Hell, having battled with my own dark depression my whole life, I thought I’d been sad forever already. I was even lower than that. But being sad doesn’t mean I can’t also be happy, or proud, or accomplished. We all experience more than one emotion, all the time.
On March 4th, 2020 the impending one year anniversary of my son’s death and the anxiety of waiting for NIPT results for my current pregnancy were crushing. I had been cursed with a tension headache for nearly a week. The doctor’s office told me that when they said 7–10 days they meant 10–14 business days, which is definitely a very different timeframe. That’s like, three normal people weeks. I was certain that I’d spend Everett’s birth/death days not only mourning him but grieving what my future could hold.
I try to be all “positive vibes” and what not but that shit is really hard when you’ve already been cursed with one of the worst statistical odds in your very first pregnancy. I kept telling myself there’s nothing genetically wrong with anyone on either side of my husband or my family, this can’t happen again. The nagging in the back of my brain kept telling me, “you said that last time.”
It was after 4 and I’d resigned myself to another day of not knowing if my new baby was going to be healthy. At 4:13, my phone rang. It was my doctor’s office. I froze. “Please please pleeeeeeaaaaase let nothing be wrong,” I said aloud as I fought back tears. It was my nurse, which anyone who’s ever done anything medical knows the doctor always makes the bad phone calls. I was cautiously optimistic. She said the words, “we actually already got your test results in, everything looks good! You’re low risk for everything.” How badly I’d wanted to hear those words, even a year ago. She asked me if I wanted to know the sex and I started crying but let out a meager “yes, please.”
We are having a girl. I am growing a little baby girl inside of me. I am so relieved that she’s healthy, above all else. I’m also grateful she’s a girl because I think it leaves more space for me to not feel guilty, or as if we’re replacing Everett. I can’t wait to teach my daughter Eden about her brother.
It is March 7th, 2020. I am sad as hell, grieving my son and the present I thought I’d be living in with him. I am also happy, growing a healthy daughter and imagining a new future with her. I most likely wouldn’t be pregnant with her if he had lived, which is a hard pill to swallow. But Trisomy 18 happens at the moment of conception; he was conceived to inevitably die. Just another thing in life that doesn’t make any damn sense. But as I mourn him yesterday and today (and tomorrow, and every day), I hope to give his life purpose and meaning even if it only means being the best mom I can be. Choosing gratitude over self pity. Allowing “sad and” whatever follows. Looking down, but knowing that the fear will subside.
Always,
Anya
